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Milk From the Mountain Pt. 1 (First Draft)

*For Nate*

hereadsanaisnin

thatmakesmewarminside

He strums

the taut chords of that glossy instrument

goofy as he,

a lopsided mask

and yet he carries the ridicule

and gives the audience his own Cheshire-Cat smile

brushing away the smooth cascade,

his curtain of raven black hair

crooning and charming

with the charisma of a twenty-first century jester

didhewinkatme

iwishhewould

I peer through the ravine

between a couch and an armchair

splayed on the hard slate of concrete

like a weirdo

afraid

to make eye contact,

waiting to embrace the velvet swirl of his voice.

The flash of his creamy teeth,

I stir at each grin,

the gentle pat on the shoulder,

and a festering horror,

idontreachoutorstrikeupsmalltalk

gripped by the comfort of the mundane

assumesir

theroleofthedroolinggroupie

There stirs,

as he serenades,

the strangest notion.

He sings

as if for the first time, yet spilling forth

a thousand swan songs.

He is the oldest

yet youngest singer here.

fixeduponaspindlystool

surroundedbytablesofshirtssnackscoffeetealacroix

cookiespretzelsoverstuffedcoucheschairsloveseats

scrunchinghimselflookingsovulnerableandliberated

clearcutfromanurbancitycollage

copiedpastedgluedwithelmersonstyrofoam

wishinghewasxeroxedcroppedfashionedinrichsepiatones

If this was his last performance,

how much would I remember?

Born and raised in CA. Film, literature, music, poetry, mostly gay/queer/GSM topics. Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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